The Lady Is a Tramp
by inkfiction
Summary: Polivia AU. This exists because of that one time Anna Torv said in an interview that if there ever was a third universe, she'd like Olivia to be a real Southern gal. *nods* Feedback is love.


**_This AU exists because of that one time Anna Torv said in an interview that if there ever was a third universe, she'd like Olivia to be a real Southern gal. This is neither complete nor perfect. In fact, I don't even know where this is going to go. It kinda wrote itself one day and has been sitting in my hard drive for months. Also, the fic is more about Olivia than Peter. The title is from that evergreen Frank Sinatra song. Any feedback is welcome, as are suggestions for upcoming chapters!_**

The little bar is dark and full of smoke that makes his eyes sting as he peers around. He finds the woman he's looking for sitting at the counter in semi-darkness – not much better lighting there, either – shrouded in shadows and clouds of smoke, most of which seem to be from her own cigarette. He looks around once again, trying to make sure he isn't mistaking someone else for her, is not reassured and decides to move forward, anyway – his choices are rather limited at the moment. He walks toward her, taking her in, trying to gauge – it is like a survival instinct for him. She certainly doesn't seem like any FBI agent he has ever seen before – and he's had his share of them in the past.

She's taller than average women, lean, rangy. The brownish jeans she's wearing is so worn and faded that it's hard to tell the shade they once were, and her shirt is flannel – red and grey-green plaid – with that soft look that comes to a shirt only when it's been worn and washed dozens of times. It's unbuttoned, and underneath it she's wearing a white t-shirt. Couple of holes in there as well, and the way it clings to her body is certainly very interesting. But what interests him more is the dull gleam of her pale gold service badge, stuck in her belt, and twinkling at him even at this distance – and the two gleaming, silver-handled Ruger Vaquero, single-action .357 Magnum revolvers, worn openly at each side of her hip in belt holsters.

High heel, pointed toe boots tap out to the tune of the latest honky-tonk song being played up on the stage – it's open mic night, it says on the chipped and dusty bulletin board in a corner – she seems to have gotten the hang of the tune better than the banjo player. Several strands of her hair have escaped from her loose, blond ponytail and frame her face like a halo – though he's sure it's just because of the shitty lighting and not because she's an angel. Her hat – her frikkin _cowboy_ hat! – it's a Stetson – sits on the stool besides her own. She's drinking whiskey, and smoking like a train engine. _This_ is the woman B.O. sent her to? This – this _cowgirl? _What is this, a cosmic joke?

He reaches her and cleans his throat behind her back to gain her attention. Better be polite.

"Hi, I'm Peter. Peter Bishop?"

He isn't proud of it, this moment, and although he tried hard, it still came out as a question and not his own name.

She swivels around on her stool to face him, looks up at him and slowly blows out a cloud of noxious smelling smoke right at his face. Her expression is blank, not impressed, and even in the dim lighting he notices how green and feral her eyes are as she scrutinizes him from head to toe while the smoke stings in the back of his throat and he tries hard not to cough.

"I thought you'd be rattier." Her voice is rough, hoarse, low, and combined with the lilting accents of the south, it's rather fascinating.

"I thought you'd be classier." His mouth runs on auto-pilot, sometimes, and right now he wants to kick himself in the ass. He cannot afford to antagonize her and blow this, it might just be the only chance he is going to get.

But she lets out a full-throated laugh. It gives him chills along his spine. This woman is fearless, he suddenly realizes as he tries to stare into the green depths of her eyes. Fearless, and very, _very _dangerous.

"Smart mouth." She pokes him hard in the chest; he has to be thankful that it was only a finger, and not the glowing orange end of her cigarette. "Say it – or were you just trying to pick me up for the night? I'll give you one chance to answer this one correctly, Johnny."

"Peter."

She tilts her head and raises an eyebrow at him, a half-smirk on her lips. "So fucking fresh, it's charming. Say it, I don't have all night," she says, flicking her cigarette, dropping the ash on his shirt.

He watches the soft, grey residue cling to his sleeve. She taps her foot impatiently, and that makes him swallow hard, question his motives again as he recalls what he has to say and weigh the words on his tongue. Eventually he speaks in a halting, hesitant voice. "B.O. said you could help me. She said to tell you to – to –"

He falters.

"Well, do go on." She drags on her cigarette; it glows ember-red, smoke dragons curling out of her nose and lips.

He takes a deep breath and decides to take the plunge. "She said to tell you that – if you – if you scratch mine, I'll – scratch yours." He finishes in a rush, afraid he might have blown his last chance, offended her.

And then there's that laugh again, it makes him raise his head sharply to look at her.

"She has such a way with words, doesn't she? She picks up her hat from the stool and puts it on the counter beside her whiskey. "Why don't ya sit your ass down, then, Johnny?"

"Uh – it's Peter. My name."

She half-snorts, flashing him half a crooked smile.

"Yeah, I know what your name is, Johnny. Sit down."

He sits.

"B.O.?" she swirls her drink around.

"Burnt Orange."

"Aw, got your own lil' nickname for Nina. How _sweet _is that?"

"Well," he shrugs, a little embarrassed. "It's just –"

"And how original. Is it because of the hair?"

His embarrassment dissolves into anger. She's being sarcastic, and all he can do is try and hide his glare, and what makes it worse is an unsettling feeling that she knows she's getting to him. And that he's letting her.

"That's what she's called in my circles," he tells her through clenched teeth.

"Oh, believe me I know all about your circles, too." She tells him, dismissing them with a little flick of her hand. "So – the deal is simple enough, if you can follow – we save you from your – _circles _– and you do our work."

"I work with you? That's it?"

"You work _for _us."

"And what do we work on?"

"Ah, Johnny. Either you're very smart or extremely foolish. Here's how it goes: you sign an agreement, and then you do what we ask you to."

"So, basically – I'm walking out of Mafioso clutches – right into your loving arms?"

"Somethin' like that, yeah. Take it or leave it."

"I need to think about it."

"Fair enough. We'll be talking to the Mafioso, meanwhile."

"Wait – you can't be serious! I thought we had a deal!" He can't believe these people.

"A deal's only a deal if you cut it, Johnny."

She drains her whiskey and extinguishes her cigarette in the dregs, jams her Stetson on her head and stands up. He just glares at her.

"So you're giving me a choice that's not really a choice at all? That's really fucked up!"

"Life's really fucked up, Johnny. Deal with it," she smiles at him, more of a smirk, really. "I'll be seein' ya round. Or not."

And she walks away, offering him a view of her alluringly swaying butt. And the guns in her holster glinting like devil horns.

"Peter," he remembers to say too late. "My name's Peter."


End file.
